


No Secrets Left Between Us

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And Feels Conflicted, And Intentional Mug Smashing, Basically Will Being ...Will, Deja Vu?, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hannibal The Vulnerable Cannibal, He's Also Indecisive, Hot Coffee And The Burgundy Sweater, Kinda Acid Trippy, Light Angst, Little bit of hurt/comfort?, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, There's Book Throwing, Will's Having Nightmares Again, You gotta read between the lines, and guilty, light gore, tiny bit of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 01:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22487866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hannibal's eyes are beeseching; vulnerable and insecure. 'Don't leave me, not when we've come this far,' they say without saying anything. Hannibal's wearing his heart on his sleeve and not for the first time--his weakness on full display. Not a brand, or a bullet wound, or a baptism by sea. 'Only me,' Will thinks and his indecision crumbles.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 110





	No Secrets Left Between Us

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, 
> 
> This is my first short fic and it's a little bit of a doozy to read. My writing style is not what you'd call 'traditional' by any stretch of the imagination, so if you have a hard time following what's going on, I am so sorry. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

The images playback like a VHS tape on rewind -- lightning fast and absolutely nonsensical. Two bodies going over a cliff, a murdered murderer, bloody violence. Will gets the gist of it --- they're falling over and over and over again, the night at the cliff house playing out into infinity. Groundhog Day, except he isn't Bill Murray and there won't be a happy ending.

There will never be a happy ending.

He's helpless, watching as Hannibal's body collides with the craggy cliff side. A corpse where there was once a man. Broken and twisted and unrecognisable in the scant moonlight. There's a splash -- Hannibal's lifeless body hitting the water -- and then Will finds that he's standing in the cliff house once again. Shattered glass littering the livingroom floor, a pool of blood spreading where Hannibal lays propped up against the foot of the piano. 

Will's sipping wine, his eyes trained on Hannibal's beseeching ones. ' _Help me,'_ they say without having to say anything. _'I will,_ he thinks, _'all in do time.'_

A knife, an axe, a bloody and unholy consummation. A kiss without a kiss. 

_"It's beautiful."_

He holds Hannibal's tattered shirt in his hands, feeling the material between his fingers. The dried blood, the lingering scent of Hannibal's aftershave. He wants to remember this. 

He lets go.

They're falling, tumbling into oblivion again, but something is different this time, something's changed. Hannibal's gone in the blink of an eye and Will is the one veering off course now. He can see the jagged outcropping of rock fast approaching and he braces himself against the inevitable impact, it's futile.

He hits the cliff side with a sickening crunch. His bones break, his teeth shatter, patches of his flesh slough off; he can see the sinew of his muscle stretching uselessly beneath the torn skin. Warm blood splatters against his face. The pain is beyond excruciating. It feels like sharp steel and hard concrete and freezing ice all at once and he still has a watery grave to look forward to. 

Falling fast, broken and bloody; Will hits the Atlantic, face to the wind, and everything goes black. 

* * *

When Will opens his eyes the first thing he sees is the rotating, teak ceiling fan in their small bedroom. It's old, creaky, but Hannibal won't let him replace it. He enjoys the vintage aesthetic too much and old ostentatious habits die hard.

Will peels himself from the mattress, his sweat soaked t-shirt clinging to his chest and back. He's been waking up like this more times than he'd care to admit -- his body hot, his skin vibrating. It's always the same vivid dream presented in graphic technicolour; pronounced and loud and terrible. They kill, they are killed, swallowed whole by the roiling, untamable sea. Rinse and repeat. 

He thinks about laying down, about curling up against Hannibal's back. He wants to feel him. To press his lips against the hollow at the nape of Hannibal's neck, to wrap his arms around Hannibal's waist and hold him close. Grind himself against the flesh of his ass, lose himself in the animalistic intensity of their fucking; viseral and wet and warm and real. 

But he doesn't.

Instead he makes his way out of their bedroom, stripping off his dirty t-shirt and tugging on one of Hannibal's discarded burgundy sweaters. It smells like Hannibal, like sandalwood and cloves, the garden and sweat. 

It smells like home.

* * *

He grabs the worn paperback book sitting on the table by the front door; it's an easy read-- a crime thriller featuring good guy cop protagonist and bad guy killer antagonist. The epitome of simplistic storytelling which Hannibal deeply disapproves of. 

"You see the irony, right?" Will had said, looking over the brim of the book, and Hannibal had offered him a lopsided grin in reply. 

He smiles fondly at the memory.

Quietly shutting the screen door behind him-- Will feels the chill of the nightair seeping into his skin; assaulting his veins, tensing his muscles, rattling his bones. It's like hitting the cliff side all over again. 

Deja vu.

He rubs his arm absently with his empty hand and lays down on the whicker loveseat to the right of the door. Propping his head up on the armrest and opening the book to the page he'd dogeared. 

_"A good way to get rid of old ghosts is to find new ones,"_ the text at the top of the page reads. He pauses for a beat and finds he's disturbed by how accurate the words are. Too close for comfort.  
  
Abruptly, Will tosses the book onto the deck. It thunks against the wooden slats, landing on its spine and falls open at the centre seam.

He didn't have the head for reading anyway. 

Looking out over the dark and empty fields surrounding their farmhouse, Will feels overcome by the stress of everything and nothing; the nighttime enveloping him in an uneasy embrace. 

He closes his eyes and sleep pulls him down into the undercurrent. A live man floating on The River Styx, dead to the world. 

Will doesn't dream. 

* * *

A firm hand on his shoulder and the enticing smell of freshly brewed coffee rouses Will from sleep. 

"You seem to have taken a liking to sleeping on the porch," Hannibal admonishes, handing the steaming cup to Will handle first. 

It's old, chipped, a faded eggshell blue. A thrift store purchase. Unrefined and a testament to the simplicity Hannibal has attempted to adopt in their new lives together. Will smiles despite himself and takes the offered mug.

"I-- I just can't sleep in the house. Too hot. The ceiling fan isn't really cutting it for me," Will says tentatively, tilting the cup up to his lips for a taste. 

Hannibal knows he's lying, Will can tell. 

The coffee is bitter and black. Moving and rippling and seesawing against the ceramic. He thinks of the Atlantic-- of broken bodies and quiet screams and raw, unfettered terror. 

Falling into oblivion, forever. 

"In any event, you are more than welcome to open the windows in our bedroom, Will." Hannibal takes a seat next to him, bringing his own mismatched mug to his lips, taking a cursory sip. "Your comfort is of as much importance as my own."

It's a loaded statement -- Hannibal's attempt at subtlety -- but there are no secrets between them now. Not anymore. Will can feel Hannibal's eyes boring into his skull and he turns to meet them with his own ambivalent gaze. 

There's silent reassurance. Understanding and compassion and Hannibal's brand of curiosity all intermingled and achingly comforting. Will feels just as seen as if it were the first time.

 _'When did Hannibal become so transparent?'_ Will thinks, ' _When did I start rebuilding my forts?'_

His uncertainty eats away at him like a cancer.

"I'll keep that in mind," Will says, looking off into the distance, watching the sky change around the edges. First lavender and then amber as the sun slowly makes its ascent towards the horizon, the moons silhouette still visible beneath thin cloud cover. 

"I had hoped that you would," Hannibal says and Will can feel the warmth of Hannibal's skin as he lays his hand on top of the one fisted in his lap-- tense and stiff. Gentleness without expectation and absent of precursory violence. 

_'Some things take some getting used to_ ,' Will thinks as he unfurls his fingers and slots them together with Hannibal's. 

They sit in silence. 

* * *

The sun is high in the sky, the flat fields surrounding their farmhouse slick with early morning dew. Will's hand is numb, his fingers white at the knuckles, grasping the handle in a vicelike grip. Coffee long gone cold and all but forgotten. 

Will lets go.

The mug breaks into jagged pieces on impact, like shattered glass on the cliff house floor. Coffee pools and rivulets run, black as blood, seeping into the wooden slats, touching the pages of his discarded book. Staining and saturating and ruining indiscriminately. 

_'Like Hannibal_ ,' he thinks and finds the comparison striking in its accuracy.

"Do you think people like us deserve to be happy?" Will asks, he's biting the inside of his cheek now, running his tongue absently along the underside of his teeth. 

The tension is palpable.

"Happiness is subjective," Hannibal muses, eyes trained on the horizon, "as are those deemed to be deserving of it." 

"It's all about perspective." Will offers apprehensively, mulling it over, staring at the broken ceramic. He liked that mug. 

He thinks about teacups and time, about the trail of ravaged bodies behind them and the lack of secrets left between them. Old wounds and fresh scars.

He thinks about Abigail.

"The life you have lived and the life you will live has no bearing in the present moment." Hannibal says, shifting in his seat. He unfurls their intertwined fingers and brings his hand up to cup Will's jaw reverently. 

Hannibal's eyes are beeseching; vulnerable and insecure. _'Don't leave me, not when we've come this far,'_ they say without saying anything. Hannibal's wearing his heart on his sleeve and not for the first time--his weakness on full display. Not a brand, or a bullet wound, or a baptism by sea. _'Only me,'_ Will thinks and his indecision crumbles.

Letting go of their past, falling into the chasm of their future together, living for now. Everything's changed, everything's been different for awhile and Will has to admit that Hannibal's right.

He's always right.

"It's terrifying to get exactly what you've always wanted," Will whispers, gripping onto Hannibal's wrist tightly. 

_'I love you, despite everything. Because of everything.'_

Hannibal leans in and presses a chaste kiss to Will's forehead. "Stay with me, Will." Hannibal says. 

He does.


End file.
